


...And I Feel The Hand Of Fate

by earthwindandfiber



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Crack, F/M, Love at first strike, No Twincest, Slow Burn, World Wife Carrying Championships, more tags to follow as Events Transpire, the wife-carrying AU nobody wanted but will hopefully have mass appeal anyway, well not really but there's definitely A Vibe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthwindandfiber/pseuds/earthwindandfiber
Summary: The Far North is holding their 48th Annual Wife-Carrying Competition, but recently-handless Jaime Lannister is NOT planning to participate.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 100
Kudos: 99





	1. Whatever it takes is what I'm gonna do

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! This fic is extremely unfinished, but the first chapter has been burning a hole in my Google Drive for four months and I couldn't resist any longer. Come talk to me @ sapphiresandsunlight on tumblr!
> 
> ETA: Wife-carrying is a ridiculously shippy sport that I did not in fact make up, but is popular in several Scandinavian and Eastern European countries: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wife-carrying. When one of my friends was talking about it in the fall, the comedic and romantic potential felt tailor-made for a fic, although of course that is in the eye of the beholder.

“ ‘We hereby announce the Far North’s 48th Annual Wife-Carrying Competition! Nestled in the foothills of the Frostfangs for the 9th year in a row! The air will be cold, but hearts enjoined in love will keep you warm! Please visit our website, www.wifecarryingcomp.fn, for entrant qualifications and sign-up details. And follow our hashtag on Twitter, Instagram, and SpiderWeb: #48thwifecarry’. More information about prizes to follow!’ ” Jaime finished reading the headline in a dubious tone of voice, and looked at his brother incredulously. “You _cannot_ be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious! I never joke about contests...or wives.” He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously.

“There have been evenings when I’ve _only_ heard you joke about wives.”

“Only to cover up the truth about how many of them I was sleeping with. I would never joke about _this_. It’s a sacred tradition!”

“It’s an anachronistic excuse for bearded brutes to drink beer and run around naked in the snow.”

“Jaime, if you’re trying to make it sound less appealing, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it. Maybe you _are_ interested in competing.” He winked.

“No. Absolutely not.” Jaime swung around in his chair, straddling the back. “Allow me to explain.” He held up his left hand to forestall Tyrion’s objections and read from the pamphlet again. “One: ‘Far North’. Far North! As if the North isn’t bad enough, they had to make it the _Faaaaar_ North. It’s like they’re _trying_ to repulse me.”

“But you — ”

“No, Tyrion. I hate the fucking North. Two: ‘wife-carrying’. Perhaps you’ve failed to notice in between your jokes about them, but I do not actually _have_ a wife. I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t even have a female secretary I could propose to unexpectedly.”

“I actually think that Pod would be more than happy to — ”

“ _Three!_ ” He raised his third finger. “It’s the _48th annual competition._ That’s dangerously close to 50, Tyrion. I don’t want to get mixed up in some Quarter Quell situation. I’m not strong enough.”

“Quarter Quell…! Jaime! How many times have you watched the Hunger Games movies this month? We’ve had this discussion before — your disposition is too sensitive for YA dystopia.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it was only two.” It was actually seven, but Jaime didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Four: the hashtag. The day I participate in something with an _official corporate hashtag_ is the day you might as well drop a ceiling on me, because the Jaime Lannister you know and love is gone.”

“Where — where did you come up with such a disturbing analogy?”

“Five! I’m not exactly sure of a clever way to phrase this, but I just really, _really_ don’t fucking want to.”

Tyrion sighed, waiting for more ranting. When none came, he smiled winningly. “Only five reasons? That’s not so bad.”

Jaime wordlessly held up his right arm to showcase the empty air at the end of his bathrobe sleeve, giving Tyrion a flat look. “Reasons number six through infinity are represented by my complete _lack_ of a right hand, which will prevent me from carrying anything larger than a breadbox for the rest of my days.” He stood, ignoring Tyrion’s protests, and stalked into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Hours later, Jaime woke with a dry mouth and a headache. _That’s what I get for taking an Angry Nap at 11 AM_. He padded to the kitchen and saw, with little surprise, that Tyrion was still sitting on his couch with a book. He filled a glass from the faucet, sat on the other end of the couch, and gestured expansively. “All right, let’s have it.”

Tyrion tented his fingers and considered his proposal. “Jaime. You haven’t left your apartment in weeks. You’ve fired the last four physical therapists we sent up here, although I suppose the last one technically quit after you tried to tilt at her with a foam roller. I haven’t seen you wearing anything other than 80’s hair band T-shirts and the same grey pair of sweats in a month, and every time I come over I have to wonder how much larger that hole in the thigh is going to be and whether today will finally be the day that they just burst off you like stripper pants. You lost your hand, but the rest of you is still here. I know there’s a lot of things you can’t do anymore, but there’s a lot more that you _can_ , and you’re just not trying. Don’t give up on yourself, Jaime. Take this opportunity for what it is: a low-stakes excuse to get you out of the house and work on your abs. Anything other than that is just a bonus — although I _am_ honor-bound to tell you that I actually expect you to win the whole thing.”

Jaime gingerly took the pamphlet again and flipped through the other pages. “Tyrion.”

“Yes?”

“ _Tyrion_.”

“What?!”

“This says that one of the prizes for the victor is to win his wife’s weight in beer.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll take it off your hands.” Tyrion chuckled but kept his gaze carefully fixed on a spot just above Jaime’s head.

“I can’t tell if you’re actually coaxing me to enter a bizarre test of athletic endurance just to be given a fuckton of beer, or if you’re only _hoping_ I think that to disguise your more charitable motivations.”

“Can you really afford to gamble on it?” His eyebrows waggled again.

“For fuck’s sake, Tyrion, you own a vineyard.”

“We don’t grow beer, though. All of our beer trees are woefully underperforming this year.” Tyrion pouted and looked at him pleadingly, though it was hard to tell whether it was the prospect of a permanently dejected Jaime or the loss of a massive windfall of alcohol that was causing him this much consternation. Both seemed equally plausible.

 _Godsdammit_. Jaime rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and heaved a great sigh as he flopped back against the cushions. “All right, fine. _Fine_. I’ll do it. You know I can’t resist your stupid puppy-dog eyes, ugh.”

Tyrion beamed. “You accept! Excellent! Have I mentioned lately that you’re the best big brother a man could ask for?”

Jaime rolled his eyes and punched his brother’ arm. “Yeah, yeah. What were you going to do if I hadn’t said yes?”

Once again Tyrion avoided his eyes and heaved himself off the couch. “I have a bunch of other stuff to give you, papers that go into more detail about various things. Let me get them from my briefcase.” As he waddled off to the coat closet, he surreptitiously took out his phone, and Jaime distinctly (and worryingly) heard him murmur something about calling off a marching band.

“You’ve convinced me on a lot of counts, Tyrion,” he called out from his seat, “but there’s at least one problem left. I still don’t have a _wife_. How do you expect me to enter a wife-carrying competition without a wife?”

Tyrion returned and threw a sheaf of papers into Jaime’s sweatpant-clad lap. “I don’t expect you to enter the contest, Jaime. I expect you to win it. And come on, you’re a Lannister. Surely you know by now that everything is negotiable?” At Jaime’s blank look he spelled it out. “They don’t have to be your _real_ wife. It can be any woman that agrees to be hoisted up and carted around by you, which should give us plenty of options once you start throwing money at people. Although frankly from the way a lot of women look at you, I’m pretty sure you could find someone for free.”

Jaime snorted. “Are you sure this isn’t some convoluted arranged-marriage scheme that Father engineered?” Jaime had never met anyone so fiercely intent on — and yet ultimately horrendous at — matchmaking. “Setting me up to get sweaty and awkward with a fake wife sounds like the first step in a far-reaching scheme that ends with me living in the Red Keep with said wife and twelve children.”

Tyrion smiled dreamily. “He _would_ love it, wouldn’t he? But don’t worry, I won’t tell him what’s going on until you’re far out of his reach. In the meantime, take a look at the rest of these. Several local gyms are running promotions on training programs to prepare. I know you’re used to working out on your own, but given that you’ve had some, erm, changes lately, _and_ haven’t had any physical therapy…”

Jaime sighed and picked up the stack. “I’ll look into it.”

“Splendid! I think there’s even a gym in there that, for a fee, provides volunteers to be carried during practice, if you’re so allergic to asking someone on your own. Pod mentioned it. I have to be going now, you know how it is — places to be, people to see. I’ll check back tomorrow?”

Jaime nodded without looking up and waved him away. “Yeah, sure, tomorrow. Bye, Tyrion.”

“Bye, Jaime.” The door slammed shut and Jaime heaved a sigh as he swung his legs up to stretch out on his couch. He idly flipped through the pamphlets, looking for the gym Tyrion had mentioned that provided volunteers — trying to entice some woman to be manhandled by him in the snow seemed beyond his capabilities at present. He found what he was looking for, read it more closely, and then threw the paper down in disgust. Where was his phone?

_Ja1me: hey asshole_

_Tyrbot: can’t back out now, i already told pod_

_Ja1me: who tf names an exercise program ‘the sapphire wedding’???_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The fic title is from “I Can’t Hold Back” by Survivor, and the chapter title is from “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Jefferson Starship. Jaime isn’t the only one who likes power ballads and melodrama.
> 
> * Tywin was dead in my first draft, but I realized that he would actually literally come back from the dead rather than miss this whole *handwaves* situation, so I let him live rather than turning it into a zombie story.
> 
> *This fic is nowhere near done, but it DOES have: a chapter-naming strategy (see above), and almost three finished chapters. Woot.
> 
> *I would love to hear everyone's thoughts, both because it is extremely lovely to hear feedback and because I could definitely use ideas for this cracktacular work-in-progress, lol.


	2. I've been lonely, I've been waiting for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne has an Eventful Day at the gym.

“Who would ever name an exercise program ‘The Sapphire Wedding’?!” Brienne gestured helplessly to the sign on the wall of the gym.

“It’s marketing!” Pod said defensively.

“It’s ridiculous! No one’s going to come to that!”

“You already have fifteen participants signed up.” Pod beamed and continued sorting papers into welcome folders with an exasperating air of satisfaction.

 _Huh_. Switching tactics, she tried again. “But what does it even mean? What _is_ a sapphire wedding?”

Pod wore a long-suffering look. “The _sapphire_ is for you. Your homeland! The Sapphire Isle! You’re the head trainer. And the wedding is… well, you know. The event you’ll be training everyone for. I don’t know, the formula of ‘color plus wedding’ just seemed like interesting phrasing. You have to trust me on this, I’m a marketing intern.”

“Podrick.”

“Yes?”

“ _Podrick_.”

“What?!”

“Did it perhaps remind you of the _Red_ Wedding, the notoriously casualty-ridden nuptials of our close friends and personal patrons, the Starks?”

“ … Maybe?” At her look of incredulity he threw up his hands. “Come on! It’s not like anyone _died_. It was just a bad batch of red clam chowder! Besides, the Starks didn’t trademark the word ‘wedding’. It’ll be fine.” He sounded confident, but his face showed a flicker of hesitation.

Brienne sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t take my bad mood out on you. I’m just really nervous about this whole idea in the first place, and the name only makes it worse. I’m sure…” She swallowed. “I’m sure it’ll be great.” He smiled tentatively and she ruffled his hair. Even though he was close to her own age, Pod had inspired inexplicable maternal feelings ever since she had rescued him from a bully on campus the year before. Maybe it was his puppy-dog eyes.

“Do you think Renly might change things if it’s making you so nervous?”

“I doubt it, but I guess I could try.” She left him to his welcome packets and set off for the director’s office.

It took even less time than Brienne had expected for her boss to give an unequivocal “no” and then walk away, chuckling. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“I’m sorry, Bri, I know how you feel. I’m a certified personal trainer with years of experience, not to mention a bachelor’s degree in education, and yet I too have been reduced to participating in promotional gimmicks.” Loras reached up and patted her shoulder sympathetically.

“At least it’s not _named_ after you, though.”

“Well no, this one isn’t, but what about our summer hiking series ‘A Stroll Among The Flowers’?”

She giggled as she remembered. “I thought that horticultural club was going to deck you once they realized you were just planning a trip into the mountains.”

Loras winced. “I had to research local botanical gardens and arboreta! Be glad that all you have to do is show up and make people do lunges.”

“You know, I get that your boyfriend puts a lot of work into coming up with new ideas for us to try and stay afloat on,” Brienne said, “but we are the absolute _worst_ candidates for preparing for this whole wife-carrying whatever.” At Loras’s blank look she elaborated. “Which three people in King’s Landing know less about how to capture a _wife?”_

They dissolved into giggles again. “All right, I’ll give you that one, but if he can be ‘my boyfriend’ when he pisses you off, he’s going to be ‘your best friend’ next time I’m the victim.”

“Deal”. They shook and Brienne tried not to notice how dainty his hands were next to hers. She was finally, _finally,_ getting along with Renly’s boyfriend and didn’t want to jeopardize their fragile détente with a navelgazing tailspin about her ugliness. She had no excuse for her silly crush; even straight men gave her a wide berth. Renly not being interested was simply… redundant.

 _If he loved me, would he have taken my request seriously?_ Down that path lay madness, she knew.

But really… _wife-carrying?_ All it would do was give more encouragement to the infinite supply of men who mocked her for her being homely… It was so much safer to not look like you were trying in the first place, because of the pleasure people got from dashing an unworthy person’s hopes.

She blinked furiously for a few moments, then strode over to the free weights. There was always something that needed scrubbing or polishing.

* * *

One week later, Brienne was sitting at the cramped desk she shared with Loras, absentmindedly highlighting an article she’d printed out the night before. She had spent every spare moment in the university library since Dr. Tarly had threatened to withdraw her funding if she didn’t finalize her dissertation topic. If that happened, and their fumbling attempts to keep gym revenue up failed…

Renly’s voice from the doorway interrupted her study. “Hey, Brienne? Are you gonna be ready to start soon?” She looked at the clock and jumped — she was late. She rushed to join him in the gym proper, trying to push her worries about school aside and focus only on her current dread. “On second thought, should we give it a little more time in case anyone’s running late?”

There were eight, nine, _eleven_ clients already milling around, Brienne noted with rising panic. Surely that was more than enough? “It’s ten minutes past nine. Everyone who’s coming is already here,” she blurted.

“Come _on_ , Bri. At least do one final sweep out front to bring in the stragglers.”

“Yeah, fine.” At least she could get a breath of fresh air before being trapped in Warrior’s Hell.

Her nerves left her more snappish than usual and she continued to lecture Renly as she walked towards the door, turning to face him before kicking it open behind her with a flourish. “I still can’t believe you’re making me do this, by the way. You owe me big! And I feel very strongly about the paying-off of — ”

THWACK.

Brienne spun around and stared in horror as the door bounced back into its frame. Through the glass, she saw someone falling back onto the sidewalk in a heap of blond hair and sweatpants. She swung the door open again, _carefully,_ and knelt next to her victim.

He — it was most _definitively_ a he, the Platonic ideal of a he, you could put this man under ‘he’ in the dictionary and no one would complain — had emerald-green eyes she could just glimpse through half-closed eyelids, a jawline you could cut yourself on if you touched it ( _should_ she touch it? Brienne felt like the answer was probably ‘no’ but couldn’t for the life of her remember _why_ ), and… a rapidly-bruising forehead lump. _Oops_.

“Ser? Excuse me, ser? Are you all right?” He furrowed his brow and made an attempt to focus, but fell back onto the sidewalk in defeat. She spotted a paper sticking out of the pocket of his hoodie and pulled it out, hoping to find some identifying information. She groaned when she saw the now-familiar logo Pod had made — this man was a prospective client. _Fantastic_. She hadn’t had very high hopes for the success of this latest venture, but even the most unsuccessful personal training programs could usually hope to avoid kill counts.

She had to get him inside the building before any bystanders stopped to gawk. A few were already slowing down. She slid one arm underneath his _(warm)_ back and the other under his _(taut)_ thighs and straightened. Turning back to the building, she saw at least five heads clustered around the doorway like spokes on a wheel, all gaping at her. Loras’s face was thankfully absent — he was probably doing something useful, like calling 911 or chartering a plane to drop her into the sea — but Renly grinned at her cheekily. “Can you hold the door for me, please,” she gritted out, and staggered over the threshold.

Once inside, she gently laid the man down on a pile of mats. “Ser? Ser? Please wake up, ser.” She felt along his hairline to search for other bumps, but found nothing. She dipped her fingers into a nearby cup of water to sprinkle a few drops on the man’s face, and his eyes finally fluttered open again.

His gaze pinned her down. She stared back, transfixed. No one had ever looked at her like that. The air between them thrummed with promise, and she was unable to speak. She felt giddy, as though she had been transported into one of her beloved romance novels. Maybe she had paid her dues and her own love story, belated though it may have been, was finally slated to begin. Her lovelorn heart, battered and flagging, creaked to life and tentatively throbbed.

…The other possibility, of course, was that his silence, dilated pupils, and fixed gaze were all the result of her having inflicted a serious head injury when she hit him with the door. The man blinked a few times, cleared his throat, and attempted to speak. Brienne waited, breath bated, to see what perfect gems of wisdom would fall from his perfect lips. This...this was the moment where the rest of her life would begin. Her supporting characters waited in the wings, Pod with a first aid kit, but not yet joining her. Time stood still.

He swallowed again and searched her face, raising his hand to stroke her cheek. “Are… are you my wife?”

Brienne reared back as if scalded. _Head injury it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a little longer to post this than I had hoped to, but life has been Very Busy. Ah, well. Better late than never!
> 
> Oh, I forgot to say this and everyone probably already knows, but this chapter's title is from "Alone", by Heart. Did I use this fic as an excuse to have a re-listen to every overwrought song in my music library? Yes, yes I did.
> 
> ETA it's "What About Love", I have shamed myself and my family.


	3. Lady, from the moment I saw you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime wakes up.

THUD.

Jaime woke from his dream with a start, his head falling backwards and coming to a sudden stop on a mat. He groaned and screwed his eyes shut. His head swam with hazy memories of hands that were strong yet gentle, of fingers running through his hair, of a soft, calming voice… and blue. He remembered the color blue. What had been blue?

A different voice pierced his reverie. “Mr. Lannister… Mr. Lannister! Wake up!” He peeked the tiniest bit and saw a perky blob with dark hair. _Podrick?_ He fervently hoped it was, or else there were two of them. “Wake up, Mr. Lannister, you’re at my gym. You’ve had a fall but you’ll be okay. I think! Help is on the way.”

Jaime opened his eyes further and took in the scene around him. He was looking straight up at a ceiling light, with an anxiously hovering Pod in one corner of his field of vision. Swinging his eyes to the side, he saw several gawking men loitering nearby. Across from them in the opposite corner was another, larger than the others. Unlike everyone else, this man wasn’t looking at him, but instead busied himself with a stack of folders, hands shaking. Jaime could see a ruddy flush moving straight from the neckline of his tank top up to his ears, and even spreading onto his broad shoulders and bulging biceps. In his daze, Jaime found the sight oddly compelling.

“Your brother is coming too, Mr. Lannister. I texted him and he said he was only a block away.” _Fantastic_. Just what he needed. Jaime focused on Pod again. Why did he feel like he was forgetting something? His head hurt too much to remember.

The silence was broken by the crackle of a radio. _“10-4. Arriving at 455 Visenya Boulevard, possible head injury.”_ Two uniformed paramedics came in and made a beeline for him. The older of the two was a solid man with a grizzled beard and kind eyes. “Hold on, young man, we’ll have you up in a jiffy.” He knelt next to Jaime. “Now, can you tell me what year it is?”

“Must be different than the one I thought it was, if I’m ‘young man’ again.”

The man’s redheaded partner crouched down beside him and smiled enigmatically. “I see we can skip the sarcasm test.”

“Is that a real thing?”

“Is what a real thing?” The last bit of glaring fluorescent was suddenly blocked out by his brother’s head. “Jaime, what did you _do?”_

“I didn’t do anything! I didn’t even make it in the building.” Had he? Jaime remembered very little after seeing the dingy storefront from the sidewalk.

Pod spoke up. “It was a door, Mr. Lannister. He… walked into it.” He bit his lip.

Tyrion frowned but was stopped from saying anything further by the male paramedic. “If you boys wouldn’t mind continuing this after we finish our assessment…”

“Of course! My apologies.” Tyrion stepped back and they moved in, each putting a shoulder under Jaime’s arms to support him. Pod scuttled off, probably scandalized to see him in such a sorry state.

As they lifted Jaime onto a stretcher, he was jostled and his right wrist jerked from his shirt pocket. His prosthesis, no doubt already loosened from the initial blow by the door, came free from his arm and clattered to the floor. Oh _… gods._ So much for his last shred of dignity.

Patrons made abortive grabs for the rolling hand, each recoiling in turn when they got a closer look, until it came to a stop at the feet of the gargantuan pink-necked man. He turned to look and gasped, and whipped his head up to stare at Jaime’s handless arm. Jaime only got the quickest glimpse of a broad mouth and crooked nose before the face was covered with two hands the size of dinner plates, which muffled a distinctly unmanly _squeak._ By the gods, was that a _woman?_

Jaime’s jaw dropped. Her nonexistent bosom heaved in great, gulping, breaths. “DON’T WORRY! I’M OKAY!” he bellowed, drawing confused glances from Tyrion and the paramedics. Jaime didn't see what was so strange about his giving people an update on his condition. “The hand was, um, already missing! Already detached. Well, _one_ is missing and the other _was_ attached, but not permanently! I mean, I suppose I know roughly where the first one is, it’s not _missing_ , per se…” He stared at the squeaker, whose breathing had evened slightly. He could see big blue eyes peeking out over the top of her hands, framed with delicate lashes. _Definitely a woman._ Where had they _found_ this beast?

 _“Ahem.”_ When Jaime finally dragged his gaze away, Tyrion tilted his head and looked at him appraisingly. Jaime realized, too late, that he had yelled every word of his last few sentences, and then trailed off in favor of getting lost in a pair of fine eyes. Far from his finest moment (although lately he’d seen worse). “Jaime, do you have to be so _loud?”_

Jaime ignored him and turned to the female paramedic. “What were some of those tests you mentioned before?”

She seemed amused. “What is your name?”

“Jaime Lannister.”

“And who is this person?” She gestured.

“That’s my brother.”

She raised her eyebrows at Tyrion, who nodded in confirmation. “Wonderful. Now, let’s move on to current events.”

He did his best to answer her questions, but couldn’t stop thinking about the enormous woman. If _she_ was an example of the much-touted wifely volunteers, this gym would be out of business in a week.

“Look over here, son?” Jaime grimaced as the other paramedic shone a flashlight in each of his eyes, flicking the beam away from and then back onto his pupils. “Good. And your arm?” He hooked him up to a blood-pressure cuff and started pumping. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask about your hand; I heard you explain it already. Very thorough.” He squinted and tried to determine whether the paramedic was making fun of him, but couldn’t tell.

The first notes of the “007” theme blared, making everyone jump. Tyrion winced. “Apologies.” He looked at his phone screen. “Ahh, I have to take this. Excuse me for a moment.” He walked off briskly with his phone to his ear.

“He has a very demanding job,” Jaime told the man holding his arm, feeling a need to fill the silence. “Constantly needs to be on call, putting out fires all over the place. Our father technically put him in charge of marketing but he does a lot more than that, we’d be totally lost with him.”

“And what do you do?”

“I… am on sabbatical.” He suddenly regretted bringing the subject up. “I worked for our security department, though.”

“Maybe you can again one day.”

He sighed. “I don’t know, it…”

The words died in his throat as he glanced to his side, then moved his eyes up, and up, and up.

While he’d been speaking with the paramedics, the gigantic woman had picked up his prosthesis and brought it over to him. She was even uglier up close. A long, wan, braid hung listlessly over one shoulder and crooked teeth bit lips that were far plumper than was strictly necessary. She held out his hand, still blushing.

“Thank you,” he said cordially. She at least had helped him, which was more than he could say for anyone else. His fingers brushed hers and he felt a spark, causing him to jerk back. The woman gasped too, which struck him as odd — gyms were full of carpet and sneakers, why should she be surprised by static electricity? — but then he looked at her more closely and forgot his question entirely.

How absurd it was, to have such pretty eyes in a face like hers. How many shades of blue did they have? A sillier man would have wanted to count. Somewhere a man was pricking his finger but Jaime barely noticed.

She was still holding his prosthetic hand, looking lost. He should ask her for it. But something was nagging at him. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“What?”

“Have we met before?” Then, to himself: “No, that can’t be it, I’d remember someone like _you.”_ She cringed.

“That is… what’s a girl like you even _doing_ in a place like this?” Was that better?

She looked vaguely insulted. _Not_ better, then.

“Why wouldn’t I be here?” He had no answer to that and she continued, “I’m with the gym.” She used the same tone of voice a groupie might have in saying they were ‘with the band’. How… precious.

“Doesn’t seem like that much to be proud of, really.” The woman’s flush deepened. There was no ‘vaguely’ about her, now.

Suddenly Tyrion was there, muscling his way in quite thoroughly for someone only four feet tall. “Please, madam, forgive my brother. He was born first and by the time I was old enough to raise him properly he was too set in his ways to change.”

Jaime narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together. He was perfectly capable of handling this provoking creature himself.

“Tyrion Lannister, at your service. How gracious it was of you to take his hand for safekeeping. Where would he be without your assistance, Miss… ?” Tyrion held out his own hand expectantly, but instead of mollified, the woman seemed more discomfited than ever and paid it no heed.

“I…”

“Do you come here often? Someone needs to keep a watchful eye on him. So clumsy, the scamp.” He laughed heartily. Jaime longed to hit him but Tyrion had cleverly positioned himself to Jaime’s right, so he could only seethe.

“I…” The woman took a deep breath and turned to Jaime. “I need to tell you, ser, it’s my fault that you’re here.”

Tyrion butted in _again._ “Your fault — whatever for? Oh, I see, are you also here for the contest training?”

“W-well, yes, but that’s not —”

“You _are?”_ Jaime interrupted, flabbergasted. He had pondered it as a joke, but was horror-struck at the thought of the men here grappling with her immense frame. Why, he could picture them now, straining and sweating. “Dear gods.”

The woman’s shoulders slumped a fraction.

Jaime’s head ached. He tried to regroup. “Anyway, you… you’ll be here for every class? For months?”

She struggled for a moment. “…So it seems, yes.”

“I see.” He whispered out of the corner of his mouth to Tyrion. “Do you think they’ll have anyone more… breadbox-sized?” Tyrion lifted one shoulder while still staring at her. The woman eyed them warily.

He felt guilty for thinking her ugly, even if it was true. “I look forward to establishing your wifeliness, dear lady,” he proclaimed grandly, and bestowed a kiss upon her giant hand. He capped the display with a roguish wink. Thank the gods he still had his Lannister charm.

But instead of the expected coy giggle, he saw her big eyes flash with hurt, quickly replaced by lowered brows and a scowl. She thrust his prosthesis into his chest with enough force that the wind was knocked from him, leaving him wheezing. “Here’s your hand, _ser._ Please let me know if I can be of any further service.” He coughed and tried to catch his breath as she turned on her heel and stalked off, ignoring two men who tried to buttonhole her on the way, and disappeared through a door in the back of the room.

Jaime was stunned. “Did she just _hit_ me?”

Tyrion flicked his eyes to him but looked away again, bored. “Hardly.”

“Nobody hits me!”

“Maybe they should,” the male paramedic muttered. He and his partner had been watching the entire exchange like a tennis match, and he rolled his eyes when Jaime turned his glare on him. “Oh, my apologies, you’re very important and interesting.”

“But not medically,” the other broke in. “Probably.”

“She’s right, you seem to be in pretty good shape. Reflexes are normal, vitals are good.”

“We’d like to take you in for a scan just in case, but I think you should escape with just a nasty bump.”

Jaime didn’t want to go back to any hospital. “Oh, I don’t think —”

“Yes, thank you, he’ll go with you.” Tyrion interrupted. “I’m sorry Jaime, but I don’t want to take any chances. Podrick can stay and take notes for you, right Pod?”

He materialized at Jaime’s side. “Sure thing!”

Jaime sighed inwardly but plastered a smile on his face. In fact… “Pod, you were here when I arrived. That must mean you know everyone, right?”

“Well not _everyone_ , Mr. Lannister, but yeah, a lot of people!”

“I want to know about that amazon that was just here. She must be one of the… are there people who we’re supposed to cart around?” For the first time, it sunk in that no other women were here. Had he hallucinated that part of the advertisement?

Pod looked at him blankly. Maybe he _had._

“Come on, you must have seen her. Seven feet tall if she’s an inch. She couldn’t be more conspicuous if she stripped down and danced in the nude.” He shuddered at the thought.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure…” Pod cast his eyes about, looking for an escape.

Tyrion followed his line of sight and focused on the two men who had tried to stop the woman earlier. “Oh, I forgot. This is Renly Baratheon’s gym! That must be his partner.”

Jaime didn’t care if the entire cast of _Cats_ worked at the gym.

“Renly! Loras!” It seemed Tyrion was more than ready to mingle as long as Jaime wasn’t officially on the brink of death. He walked over to chat, happy to let the paramedics deal with Jaime and wash his hands of the matter.

Now was his moment. Jaime shot his hand out and grabbed Pod’s t-shirt, dragging him across the stretcher. _“Tell me who the woman is.”_

“Mr. Lannister! I…”

“I don’t need my right hand to make you _suffer,”_ he hissed in one ear.

“I really don’t think — okay, _okay,_ fine! There’s only one woman here. The carrying volunteers don’t come until next month. You must be talking about the trainer. She’s the one… well, the one who hit you with the door.”

 _Hit_ him with the door. “Violent, is she?” A great hellion like her could really ruin a man, Jaime mused.

“Well, not normally, no. I think she feels pretty bad about it. She looked really upset.”

“Worried I might sue?” he rasped.

Now it was the boy’s turn to look upset. “No! She just would never want to hurt someone like that, she’s been nothing but kind to me… you wouldn’t really sue, would you, ser? The owners aren’t rich or anything. It was just an accident, I swear.”

He pretended to consider for a moment. “I could probably hold off, _if_ you do me one small favor in return.”

Podrick looked at him quizzically. Then realization dawned, and he sighed. “Her name is Brienne. Brienne Tarth.”

 _Brienne._ He would have to remember that. So he could avoid her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title comes, of course, from the Styx song "Lady". 
> 
> For the paramedics, to my utter shame I couldn't visualize them as anyone other than Davos and Melisandre, thanks to their portrayal in angel_deux's inimitable "two halves of a sword" series. So any and all credit for that is due to her, rather than me, and I apologize profusely for borrowing the idea.

**Author's Note:**

> I love getting feedback so be sure to let me know if anybody liked anything! Also if you want to see another person flailing around on tumblr I'm at @sapphiresandsunlight.


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